Thankfully their leap hadn’t caused the entire covering of snow to fall in on itself, and the crevasse was still hidden from view for most of its length. The snow continued to fall and with each passing minute it was making the dip look less and less defined. Lock hoped that it would stay that way. He followed the crevasse until he was a good fifty yards from where Amy was sheltering. He glanced back to her and could see her hat-covered head bobbing up above the edge of the boulders. Lock waved her down. When she didn’t respond, Lock pointed off in the direction their pursuers were coming from. Amy looked over that way, then signalled her understanding and stooped down out of sight. Lock wrapped his scarf around his head and laid himself down in the snow and waited.
After a while, his ears rang as they strained to make out the approaching horses. But all he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding in his chest and the creaking of the snow underneath his body when he shifted his weight. Every few minutes he wiped the snow from his eyes and tried to see into the blankness ahead. How long before he became snow-blind and couldn’t see a bloody thing in front of his eyes? What did they call it? White-out?
He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, though, and worried that when the moment came he would be too numb to move. He turned his head and stopped still. About a hundred yards ahead of him, emerging out of the whiteness, were three horses.
Lock rubbed the snow from his eyes again. The riders were definitely Turks. He could now make out that all three wore the distinctive kabalak hats of the Ottoman cavalry, as well as the huge shaggy fur coats that were common among Anatolian peasants.
Lock knew that the riders couldn’t see him. Not yet, anyhow, not with the heavy snowfall. And he must be well camouflaged by now, too. Just let them get a little closer, he thought. But not so close, that they would spot the crevasse.
Just a few more yards.
Now!
Lock burst to his feet, yelling. The lead horse whinnied in surprise and reared up on its hind legs. But its rider was an expert and, with a yank of the reins, immediately brought his steed under control again.
Lock fled as best he could, first to the side, and then away, away from the crevasse. He prayed that his plan would work and that his knee wouldn’t give out.
He turned his head to see the two lead riders kicking their heels into their horses’ flanks. They shouted into the wind and galloped towards him. The third rider was trying to steady his horse as he raised his rifle. Lock knew it would be a difficult shot as the wind and snow were buffeting him from behind, so he just ran on as best he could. He stole a glance over his shoulder just as the third rider pulled the trigger. Lock saw the weapon kick back but he felt no impact and heard no whistle from a passing bullet. The rider thrust his rifle back into its saddle holster and with a kick of his heels set off in pursuit of his comrades. Lock lumbered on. He looked back again just in time to see the first two horses step onto the covered crevasse. The ground beneath them collapsed and they vanished in a cloud of white powder. There was no sound, no shouts, no screams, nothing. Just one minute they were there, then the next they were gone.
Lock stood still, his lungs burning as he gasped for breath.
The third horse pulled up sharply and reared, its rider desperately dragging back on its reins. He peered down into the abyss before him, then up at Lock. He shouted something, but it was snatched away by the wind. Then, turning about, he trotted a little away to his left, until he came to the point at which the crevasse became narrower. He glared across at Lock again then turned the horse, went back a few paces, turned again and charged forward.
Lock ran in great galumphing strides, swinging the leg with the injured knee swiftly out to the side, hurrying back towards the cover of the boulders and to Amy’s precious pistol. He checked over his shoulder once more. The pursuer’s horse gave a great whinny and, in one graceful movement, leapt across the crevasse.
Lock stopped. To continue to run was pointless. He’d never make it back to the rocks now. He pulled out his empty Webley and, brandishing the revolver like a club, turned full on to face the horseman. ‘Come on then, you bastard!’
The rider drew his sword, extended the blade and charged forward.
Lock could smell the musky, rank stench of the rider’s fur coat now and the stale, acrid saddle sweat of the horse as it thundered towards him. He waited until it was less than a foot away, then at the last moment swung the Webley at the Turk’s leg and dived to one side. The horse’s front hooves barely missed him. Lock caught a glimpse of the Turk’s blade swinging down in a low, sweeping arc, and felt a blow to his stomach.
Lock sprawled heavily to the ground. He felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. He was lucky; the horse’s rear leg had caught him, not the rider’s sword.
He lay dazed on the frozen ground. Snow fell onto his face and he tried to catch his breath. In the distance he could hear thunder. He turned his head.
The horse was coming again. Lock cursed and forced his body up. Pain seared through his injured knee, but he ignored it. He had to get to his feet. He raised the Webley once more.
A gunshot cracked through the air and Lock instinctively ducked. Then, with the horse no more than a few feet away from him again, a second gunshot rang out and the rider arched his back and fell forward in his saddle. The horse slowed to a trot and as it careered off to the left, Lock could see Amy standing, legs astride, with the raised pistol in her hands.
‘Miss? Miss!’ Lock shouted, stumbling towards her. She was beginning to sway unsteadily. Just as Lock got to her she let the pistol fall from her grip, her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees gave way. Lock caught her and laid her carefully down.
‘Miss? Miss?’ Lock brushed the hair from Amy’s ashen face. ‘Miss?’ His eyes fell on her pale, chapped lips. He hesitated, then leant forward and kissed them lightly.
‘Amy?’
Lock glanced back at the horse. It was standing still and shivering, head stooped, its dead rider collapsed beside it, one foot still caught in a stirrup. Lock lay Amy carefully down and made his way over to the horse, making gentle cooing noises as he approached. The horse raised its head and snorted nervously, but Lock reached out and caught its bridle. The horse tried to pull away. Lock held firm and stroked its muzzle reassuringly. ‘There, boy. Steady, steady.’
The horse calmed and Lock edged around to its flank, gathered the reins and yanked the dead rider’s foot from the stirrup. He stripped the rider of his thick coat, then turned the horse about, and walked it over to Amy. Lock helped the girl to an upright position, wrapped the dead Turk’s coat about her, and then gathered her in his arms.
Amy’s eyes flickered open. ‘Hello.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘Hello, you,’ Lock said softly.
‘Did I get him?’
‘Yes, yes you did.’
Amy smiled weakly. ‘You’re right, Mr Lock. It is different to shooting a squirrel.’
‘You did what you had to, miss.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. You saved my life.’
With an effort Lock raised Amy up onto the horse and then climbed up behind her. He clicked his tongue and turned the horse about and trotted away from the crevasse.
‘I feel so … dizzy,’ Amy said.
‘We need to get that foot seen to,’ Lock said. ‘It may be infected.’
Amy pressed her head against Lock’s chest and sighed softly. ‘Mr Lock?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have a Christian name?’
‘Kingdom.’
‘Kingdom?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Amy fell silent again and Lock wondered if she had passed out. But then the girl stirred. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘May I call you “Kingdom”?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And you must call me “Amy”.’
‘Yes, miss.’
The horse trotted on.
‘Kingdom?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did I faint?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ she said.
The horse snorted a protest, its hot breath steaming out of its nostrils and Lock thought that was ample comment. He leant forward and patted its neck reassuringly.
‘Kingdom?’
‘Miss?’
‘Did you just kiss me?’
Lock didn’t reply straight away, he just continued to concentrate on the snowy landscape ahead of him. He thought about not telling her, if it was best that he didn’t tell the truth. But then he realised he needn’t worry. She had passed out again.
‘Yes, miss,’ he said. ‘I believe I did.’
CHAPTER ONE
Karachi
Twelve weeks later
The horse-drawn carriage turned into a sweeping gravel-lined drive and jarred to a halt directly opposite the main entrance of an imposing Victorian residence. All of the homes were grand in the Clifton district of Karachi, but this particular one was a palace. It was one of those Anglo-Indian constructions built in the early days of the Raj, and, as appeared to be the fashion, was lit up like an opera house. The carriage door opened and Kingdom Lock stepped stiffly down onto the greasy path. The rain had eased off and the chilly night air was carrying the sickly sweet aroma of spices and tea up from the distant docks. Lock brushed his hand through his thick, sandy hair and placed his dark-brown fur felt fedora on his head. He handed a coin up to the driver, who bobbed his head with thanks, and watched as the carriage rattled its way back around the drive. Lock glanced up at the sky. The stars were beginning to show through the thinning clouds and there was an ominous sickle moon glowing to the east. He smiled softly to himself: even the gods saw fit to constantly remind him of the Turks and the threat of the Ottoman Empire.
‘We shall see,’ he muttered and turned to the house.
Outside the front door, at the top of a set of stone steps, two sepoy sentries were standing erect under a pair of yellow gas lamps. They were as oblivious of the cloud of moths and crickets that danced above their heads as the insects were of the certain death offered by the flickering flames. Both soldiers were dressed in long red parade tunics, with blue trousers tucked into white spats, and on their heads they wore the distinctive pagri wrapped around a khulla cap. They didn’t even give Lock a second glance as he ascended the steps. Before he even got to the top, the main door opened and a smiling Indian servant greeted him with a bow.
‘Good evening, sahib.’
Lock pulled an invitation card from his dinner-jacket pocket and handed it over to the servant. ‘I’m a little late. Took me an age to find a carriage in this rain.’
‘Very good, sahib. Welcome.’
Lock stepped inside and removed his hat. ‘Take good care of that, won’t you?’ he said, handing it to the servant.
‘If you will kindly follow me please, sahib.’
The servant led the way across a cool and dark entrance hall. Opulent portraits of forgotten dignitaries and unmemorable royals gazed down on them from high up on the walls. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they crossed the stone floor and made their way past a grand marble staircase and over towards a set of highly polished wooden double doors. Lock could hear muffled voices and soft music from the other side.
‘Have I missed dinner?’
‘Not dinner, sahib, a buffet,’ the servant replied, and he opened the double doors.
A rotund, bewhiskered regimental sergeant major, resplendent in dress uniform, greeted Lock with a stiff nod of his head. He took the invitation card from the servant and turned to the grand room before him. He cleared his throat and bellowed in a rich voice that held the merest hint of a Teesside lilt, ‘Mr Kingdom Lock.’
A few eyes looked across to see the late arrival, but most of the guests continued with their light chatter.
Lock waited by the doorway at the top of three wide steps that led down into what he presumed was a ballroom. There were about fifty people there, of all ages, and all dressed in their finery. The majority of the men were uniformed officers, with bright polished buttons and shining leather belts. The women were a dazzle of satin, silk and sparkling jewellery. A ripple of laughter floated across the room like a wave on a sandy shore. A band was over in the far corner playing light classical music, but it was nothing Lock recognised. Here and there a waiter wafted through the throng with a tray of filled glasses balanced on their upturned hand.
Lock adjusted his bow tie, and was about to descend the steps, when a sudden voice called from amongst the crowd.
‘Kingdom! Kingdom!’
Lock stopped and looked up. Amy Townshend was weaving her way through whispering couples and gossiping groups. She put her hand up and waved, calling again as she pushed her way politely on. Lock raised his hand in recognition, and descended the steps. The nearest people to him, a middle-aged British colonel with a yellow-grey walrus moustache and his sour-faced, overweight wife, gave him a disapproving glance, but Lock ignored them and moved on towards the approaching Amy.
The girl, a vision of pink silk and lace, her auburn hair piled deliberately on top of her head, was slightly out of breath when she reached him, and threw her arms unashamedly around his neck. ‘Oh, I’m so very pleased to see you!’ she beamed, embracing him tightly. There were a few disapproving glances and mutters from those guests nearest them.
Lock gently pulled Amy away from him. ‘Miss …’
Amy caught the embarrassed look on his face and laughed. ‘Oh, tosh! Don’t let these stuffed shirts bother you. I don’t care! They’re not my guests. I’m just so pleased you came.’
‘Well, I promised you, didn’t I?’
Amy scowled, as she looked Lock up and down. ‘You look very handsome in that … dinner suit … However, I just bet you’d look even more dashing in uniform.’
‘Now, miss, let’s not spoil the evening.’
‘Well, I’ll have a uniform soon. I’m to be a nurse.’
‘Really?’
Amy nodded. ‘I’ve signed up with the VAD. Father isn’t happy about it, but maman supports me. She’s a nurse, too, well, a sister actually. And we must all do our bit, mustn’t we, Mr Lock?’
‘Amy …’ Lock warned. He wanted to advise her not to go against her father’s wishes, that he had done something similar at her age, nearly ten years previously, and still regretted it. But now wasn’t the moment, and she wouldn’t listen to him anyway. It was the girl’s party, her birthday, and she looked happy. In fact, if he was honest, she looked absolutely beautiful.
‘Here, perhaps this will suffice?’ He fished a small packet out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Happy birthday.’
Amy narrowed her eyes suspiciously and tore open the box. She paused, then burst out laughing.
‘Oh, how very sweet, a tin soldier. Thank you, Kingdom, I shall treasure it.’
‘Well, you do go on about men in uniform. So now you will always have one.’
‘You are a tease, Kingdom.’ Amy’s face broke into a smile.
‘So, how is your foot?’
‘Well, I avoided the celebratory party upon my triumphant return, as you so astutely predicted. But it’s better now, thank you.’
‘For dancing?’ Lock smiled.
‘Yes. For dancing. Shall we get a drink?’
Lock nodded. ‘A splendid suggestion.’
‘Come along, then,’ Amy said, grabbing his hand and pulling him back through the crowd.
Amy smiled sweetly at a white-haired general who was muttering with two other uniformed officers and a smartly dressed Indian merchant as she and Lock weaved by. Lock nodded affably, but was met with cold, steely stares.
‘I don’t know who half these people are, you know,’ Amy called back to Lock.
‘What about your beau? Is he around?’
‘Who, Casper? Somewhere. His regiment is off to Mesopotamia the day after tomorrow, so all his chums are here having a last hurrah, too,’ Amy said, as she continued to
lead Lock towards the far end of the ballroom where a small group of officers, ladies and merchants were gathered around a tall and suave older officer.
‘There’s Father,’ Amy said, ‘holding court as usual. No doubt telling another of his boring stories about his and maman’s social circle back home in Paris. At least he hasn’t brought out his banjo. Well, not yet. It’s still early.’
‘Banjo? Are you being serious?’
Amy nodded. ‘Deadly.’
One of the officers, a stocky man in his forties, with a dark, round face and a thick chevron moustache, who was standing to the right of Amy’s father, caught Lock’s eye and gave the subtlest of nods.
‘Do you know Major Ross?’ Amy said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lock said. ‘He’s the man who asked me to get you out of Constantinople. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known he was going to be here.’
‘Oh. Well, in that case, let’s steer you away and find Casper. I’ve told him all about you.’
‘Good idea. But I’m afraid we’re too late, he’s coming over.’
‘Bother.’ Amy put on a false smile and waited for Ross to get to them.
‘Ah, Lock, there you are!’ beamed Ross. ‘Mademoiselle Amy, many happy returns. And may I say you are looking divine tonight?’ He raised the glass of champagne he held in his hand.
‘You may, Major, thank you.’ Amy gave a short, mocking curtsy. ‘But I have been eighteen for nearly a whole week now.’
‘How’s the knee, Lock?’ Ross said, his voice soft with a subtle Scottish accent.
Amy put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, mon dieu, Kingdom. How rude of me,’ she said. ‘I never even thought to ask.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Lock smiled. ‘On the mend. A little stiff in the evenings, that’s all.’
‘Jolly good,’ Ross said, and turned to Amy. ‘Do you mind awfully if I borrow Mr Lock for a moment?’
Amy glanced at Lock and tried to conceal her disappointment.
‘I shan’t keep him long …’ Ross said.
Amy smiled politely. ‘For a moment then, Major.’
Ross bowed his head and Lock watched as Amy weaved her way through the blur of uniforms and dresses, and over to the French doors on the far side of the band, where a number of young officers were chatting to some young ladies. She was a lovely creature and it troubled him that he thought so. He really had believed that his passion had died on that field in Tsingtao when he watched his love die in his arms. Was he really ready to embark on the chase again? So soon.
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